The Unforgetting
by Nuclear Meatball
Summary: He often dreamt about the winter when he first met her. After dark, in the dim blue of his room, the memory would flit up before him, bright and silent, never changing.


**Author's Note: **A biopic look at Cloud and Tifa's childhood friendship up until the events that lead Cloud into SOLDIER. I don't think there are enough friendship fics, so I decided to write one. Admittedly though, I'm a hardcore Cloud/Tifa shipper, so the story may lean (hint) that way anyhow, so the second category is listed "romance" for safety's sake. This first chapter is told as the recollection of a memory. Cloud is about four here, and Tifa is three (though I don't think I characterised that well). The story will continue on from there. The rating will probably change to "T" as they get older.

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HE OFTEN DREAMT ABOUT THE WINTER when he first met her. After dark, in the dim blue of his room, the memory would flit up before him, bright and silent, never changing. He saw the simple yellow banner that read "Happy Birthday" and the loud neon balloons scattered across the floor. The drifting snow blew up against the red chestnut double doors. From his window he saw her walking toward those doors--a tiny, pale child with bright, tilting eyes, a pink mouth, and hair like an ink brush.

He remembered. That winter, he could not stay warm. He had wrapped himself in a heavy coat and wound his neck in woollen scarves, but the chill soaked deep beneath his skin and swirled into every crevice of the tiny house, frosting over the windowpane glass pictures he had traced with numb fingers. He was perched unmovingly on the window sill, his eyes fixed outside to keep himself from falling. He sat, as he had for hours, watching the snow make bright white flecks in the dim yellow porch lights.

It was then that he had seen her.

The girl and her mother had arrived near dusk and waited, confident and expectant, at the doorstep. He had appraised the girl with careful curiosity as his own mother whirled into the room to welcome the guests with an air of wounded relief. The woman at the door, he had reflected, he recognised with a sort of detached familiarity. She had visited occasionally, now this afternoon, now the next, a brief visit each holiday, the single patron of both his and his mother's birthday parties—and always greeted his mother with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and often with gifts for her "favourite neighbour and her cute little son." He had not been able identify the girl. She might have passed his little window a dozen times before, but he could not remember seeing her before that evening. His mother lifted him from the sill and introduced him. He had stared with intense interest.

The four of them sat at the cramped dining table. He was dimly aware of his mother pouring tea, and when he received his own tea, he looked down at the swirl of leaves in the water. A single leaf drifted and slid against the white and blue cup, then began to float, upright. He felt the heat of the steam on his cold face. He had grasped at the cup's warmth.

He listened absently as his mother laughed sadly at something the other woman said. She had assured his mother that the party had been a good idea. Next year, she ardently promised, she would spread word. Next year, she would not come alone. He lost interest, and chanced another look at the girl.

She had not touched her tea, and she returned his gaze with equal curiosity. He decided, with finality, that she had strangely coloured eyes.

He slumped farther into his coat. He had noticed she had worn only a yellow dress and tall white stockings underneath her deep blue jacket. He began to fidget nervously. He could not help himself:

Wasn't she cold?

She shook her head dispassionately. He offered her his jacket. She refused, offering him instead a small smile. Her eyes followed the line of his face, his throat, his coat, back up to his ruffled yellow hair. She had clutched suddenly at her mother's elbow, declaring loudly that she wanted to go home. Her mother had chided her softly. Then she glanced at her watch. She apologised and stood up abruptly. She seized her bag, and there was bright flash of silver, now in her hand, now on the table, as she produced two boxes. She squeezed his mother's hand, and she and her daughter began to head for the door.

He and his mother had followed. The four stood at the door for a moment; the two woman had exchanged embraces. He clung to his mother's skirt, abruptly light-headed and timid. He peeked shyly at the girl, then her mother. The girl gazed bashfully back. Her mother regarded the two with mild amusement. He had glanced at her mother again, and she pulled him into a loose hug. She stood, again smiling at his mother, and walked out the door.

The girl paused. She ambled over to his mother, eyes downcast, ears red against the dark of her hair. She hug his mother, quickly, awkwardly around the legs, the faintest murmur of "happy birthday" tumbling out in a gentle whisper. She backed slowly away, catching his eyes with the slightest suggestion of a smile. She had waved at him exuberantly, then chased after her mother into the swirl of white snow and damp moonlight.

For the first time, he had felt warm.

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**End Notes: **Can't say I'm particularly pleased with this chapter. It was kind of rushed, and I think I didn't quite hit the tone I was aiming for. It was all over the place. I avoided dialogue to convey a fuzzy, ethereal memory-type mood, but I don't think I acheived that, either. Ah, well. I may edit it later. But what do YOU think? Leave me a review and tell me!

And for clarification's sake, it's Cloud's mother's birthday, not Cloud's.


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